


you could be my unintended

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Tropes, lokipologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best laid plans of men and mischiefmakers oft go awry, and sometimes have unforeseen consequences. When Sif and Loki stumble into a marriage, they must learn to live with one another-- or die trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you could be my unintended

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murdur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdur/gifts).



> **Warnings** : Canon-typical violence.   
> **Disclaimers** : All characters belong to Marvel Comics & various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun. Title is from a song by Landon Pigg; I didn't have anything to do with that, either
> 
> This is entirely Ann's fault.

"What do you mean, _married_?" 

Sif stared at the dwarven priestess before her, scrambling to process what the woman had just told them. 

"Just as I said, my lady," the priestess replied, gesturing between an astonished Sif and an equally astonished Loki. "The spell has bound you to one another. The people of your realm would perhaps call it marriage, though we view it somewhat differently here." 

Sif continued to stare on in mild horror, determined to stay standing even as her world rearranged itself. When she thought to spare a glance at Loki, she saw that he, too, looked entirely shocked, for this was most certainly _not_ what this spell was supposed to accomplish. 

She recalled the events of the past several days, searching for the moment it had all gone so horribly wrong. They had all arrived in Nidavellir some time before, seeking adventure and glory; after a battle and a strange storm, she and Loki had been separated from Thor and the Warriors Three for several days. When they had come upon this strange dwarven encampment, deep in the caverns of the mountains where they wandered in search of their comrades, Loki sought out this priestess, asking about a spell of which he had previous knowledge, something that he claimed would help them to locate their friends. 

He had been incredibly irritated when she had insisted upon being part of the spell, and even the priestess had seemed concerned, warning them that the magic could not be undone, droning on about unintended consequences which Sif would hear none of, for she was a warrior of Asgard, and she was not afraid of a little _magic_. But all the same, the spell made her feel strange, as though the magic had taken her breath from her while it wrapped around both of them, imprinting odd glowing runes on their palms.

That was when the priestess had stepped back and announced them bound to one another, or, as those of Asgard would understand it, _married_.

Perhaps, Sif reflected, staring at the strange runes that had yet to fade entirely from her hands and from Loki's, she should have been a bit more cautious. It was far too late for that now. 

"The runes will fade in time," the priestess assured her, but that was not at all the assurance Sif needed or wanted. 

" _You_ said this ritual would give us what we most needed," Sif accused, turning her wrath upon Loki, for this stupid spell had been all _his_ idea in the first place. "I did not need you for a husband!" 

"You are a bigger fool than I thought if you think I felt I needed you for a wife," Loki snapped, and she swore and shoved at him before turning back to the priestess. 

"What we needed was to find our friends! We did not need to be _married_ against our will!"

"It was not against your will, I assure you. Had your heart not been in it, lady, the ritual would not have worked," the priestess said simply, and Sif briefly considered punching her, but thought better of it. Starting a war with Nidavellir was not something the rest of Asgard would appreciate, though it would certainly improve her own mood. 

"Undo this," Sif demanded, fists clenched, jaw set. "Now."

She glared into the irritating calmness of the priestess's eyes with all the force she would have used to stare down a young warrior who boasted of deeds he had not accomplished, yet the priestess, who Sif belatedly surmised was made of the stuff with which her people had forged Mjolnir, did not even flinch in the wake of her wrath. 

"What has been done cannot be undone, Lady Sif," the priestess said. "I did warn you of this consequence before you began." 

Sif turned back to Loki in her desperation. "You are a magician," she wheedled. "And the finest we have. There has to be something--" 

"All we can do is ignore it," he told her curtly, and she bristled. This was hardly her fault, and as she was certain that he had as much use for her as a wife as she did for him as a husband, she could not understand why he was angry with _her_.

Loki knew as well as she did that she had been promised to Thor from her early adolescence, and though she had never been overly enthusiastic about the idea of marriage, she saw it as part of her sworn duty to her realm, and one she would one day willingly undertake for the good of her people-- with the understanding from her friend and betrothed that she would never be consigned to a life of mothering children while forsaking battle and glory.

Marrying Thor was as close as she could come to marrying her realm, and for that she accepted it. But marry _Loki_? Marry Loki, who was obviously though quietly jealous of his brother, who caused trouble at every possible opportunity for his own amusement, who only came along on these adventures to flaunt his magic and wit in the faces of his friends, as though warriors were without intellect or understanding? No, the idea did not even bear considering, yet here she stood, bound for eternity to the wrong brother on the rocky mountain soil of this accursed realm. She had never wanted to destroy something quite as much, but she balled her hands into fists and consoled herself with the thought that Loki, consummate liar that he was, would likely never be inclined to share this horrible secret, so perhaps life could continue on regardless once they found their friends and returned home. 

"It will be fine," she repeated, a near-constant refrain as they walked along, following the priestess from the site of the ritual back to the main portion of the encampment. "It will be fine, so long as no one discovers it." 

Loki said nothing, instead maintaining the chilly silence he had affected since they left the sacred grounds where the spell had been cast.

"We will find our friends and then we can return to Asgard and we never need speak of this again," she continued. "There is little reason to allow it to disrupt the course of our lives." 

"Of course," he said at last, and she sighed her relief into the wind that swept around them as they entered the caverns once more.

To their surprise, Hogun and Fandral awaited them when they at last returned to the main part of this small dwarven city, smiling when they saw their friends. Sif was careful to keep the hand that had had the runes on it clenched into a fist until she could risk looking to see if they had disappeared. 

"There you are," Fandral said, waving them over. "We have been searching everywhere for you." 

"Yes, everywhere," Loki said shortly, "except where we were." 

"We are glad to see you, I'm sure. There is no reason for such ill humor," Sif told him, glaring pointedly at Loki, who shrugged and looked away, arms crossed over his chest. She turned back to their friends, trying to smile, but failing. "Where are the others? Are they not with you?" 

"They are speaking with the leader of this encampment," Hogun informed them. "Volstagg knew him of old, and as it was his own father who helped to forge Mjolnir, Thor accompanied him to discuss its use." 

"Wonderful," Loki sighed. "We will still be here when Ragnarok comes." 

As frustrated as she was with him, she found that she had to agree with his assessment: no one knew how long a warrior would wax on about weapons like another warrior, after all, and she wanted to go, immediately.

Every moment they remained here was another moment they risked their secret being discovered, and it set her teeth on edge. She wondered if all of his many secrets were the source of Loki's occasional ill temper; this one was certainly doing her mood no good, for what should have been a joyous reunion between friends was instead full of trepidation that they would be found out. 

She glanced nervously at her palm to see if the runes had faded; they had, but when she saw that Loki was doing the same with his own hand, she quickly closed her hand up, fingers against her palm, and hoped that this strange gesture had escaped her friends' notice.

As it happened, their attempts at secrecy were all for naught, for when Volstagg and Thor returned from their talk with the dwarven leader, they saw to their everlasting dismay that the priestess walked with them. Sif and Loki exchanged a worried glance; from the curious look on Thor's face and the predictable roar of Volstagg's laughter, they could tell that the damned priestess was telling them all that was to be told. 

"Well, well," Volstagg laughed, when he and Thor rejoined the others. "We hear that two of you are to be congratulated on your _marriage_." 

"It was a mistake, a misunderstanding," Sif hurried to explain, while Hogun and Fandral looked over at them in amused amazement. She found herself nearly ready to pummel Loki when he did not immediately come to her aid and dismiss the seriousness of this magical accident. "We were only trying to do a spell to help us find you, but it all went wrong somehow." 

"Dwarven magic is powerful," Hogun observed calmly, looking carefully between them. "I would be slower to speak ill of it, Lady Sif." 

"Hogun speaks truly," Fandral added, but from the tone of his voice she already knew that he was about to make some ridiculous jest. She shot him a warning look, which, of course, he ignored. "After all, Sif, they did forge Gungnir _and_ Mjolnir, they must know what they're about when it comes to making things that harm people." 

Sif punched him in the arm rather immediately. Loki looked amused for half a moment, but as soon as he saw her glancing his way, he schooled his features into bland disinterest once more.

She waited to see what Thor would say. Surely if _Thor_ , the Crown Prince of all Asgard, her friend to whom she was promised, thought this all as ridiculous as they did, it would soon be nothing more than another silly tale for the banquet hall, dwarven magic or no. But then Thor _laughed_ and clapped Loki solidly on the shoulder with one hand, reaching out to do the same to her. He pulled them both in close, saying, "Asgard has lost a fine queen, Sif, but you have each gained a fine spouse." 

"You are not angry?" Loki asked, he and Sif both studying Thor's face carefully, but Thor wore only a broad grin with no traces of anger.

"I would not begrudge either of you any measure of happiness," Thor said, cheerfully ignoring the fact that neither of them looked all that happy about this turn of events. "And as for the promises our parents made for us, Sif, what seemed to be a good idea when we were children was perhaps no longer so." 

Dazed, she nodded in agreement; she had long known that the love between them was the love of friends, of brothers-in-arms, but she still felt that if her choice had to be between one of her friends, the choice that had been made for her by this magical tragedy was decidedly the wrong one. 

"Let us return to the bifrost site," Thor said, still joyfully hugging the two of them against his sides. "We must bring you before Father and share this news with all of Asgard." 

"Odin's beard," Sif swore.

"Shall we take wagers on which of them will kill each other first?" Fandral joked. 

"It will be you first," Sif said, at exactly the same time as Loki said, "Come now, we know it will be your head before ours, Fandral," and their friends all chortled with laughter while they quietly seethed. Neither of them spoke again, all the long trek back to the bifrost site. 

This was not going to be a pleasant adventure.

\+ 

Upon their return to Asgard, Sif soon found herself embroiled in mild scandal, for even though affairs were so frequent among their people as to be considered commonplace, it was still expected that they not be _flaunted_. Some discretion was expected, if not _required_. 

"You were to be _queen_ ," her mother lamented, pacing the floor in Sif's chambers of the palace. "If you had wanted to waste your time in some sordid dalliance with the second prince, you might have at least waited until you were wed to the first one!" 

"Truly I know neither shame nor propriety," Sif bit out, sarcasm radiating outward from her like an angry cloud. She did not bother to point out that she had always comported herself perfectly well before now; she and Thor may have been engaged, but they had a silent understanding that the promise their parents had made for them would not keep them from taking other lovers. 

Her mother threw up her hands and muttered under her breath as she walked away from her wayward daughter. Sif heard little of it save _May Odin forgive her_ , and she rolled her eyes and resumed polishing her swords, waiting for her mother to give up and return to her own household. 

If Odin Allfather was displeased by this strange turn of events, it did not show on his face when she and Loki went before him to explain what had transpired on their excursion to Nidavellir. Sif had hoped he might, in his infinite power and wisdom, see fit to dissolve this unfortunate union, but it was not to be so. 

He listened to their tale of woe, paused thoughtfully, and sealed their fate. "The dwarves practice an old magic, older in some ways than even my own," he intoned. "I will not break this bond they have placed upon you." 

"But Father--" Loki began, gesturing toward Thor, who was unhelpfully beaming at both of them instead of voicing some kind of objection. Odin held up his hand for silence. 

"I have made my decision, as you have made yours," he told them gravely. He looked over at Frigga, who nodded, beaming at them both. "Lady Sif, we release you from your promise to Thor, and we will not consider it broken." 

She bowed her head in thanks; her marriage to Loki was surely punishment enough for accidentally having broken this promise to Thor.

If she and Loki were sullen and despondent at this pronouncement, Frigga made up for a good measure of their despair, for the Allmother was clearly overjoyed. She came up to them, clasped both their hands, called Sif _daughter_ , and immediately set about making plans for a ceremony. 

"Must we go through all that again?" Loki asked. They shared a brief look of mutual disdain before looking elsewhere again, Loki at the pillars behind Odin's throne, Sif at some invisible stain on her tunic. 

"We must give Asgard a chance to celebrate your union," Frigga said firmly. Sif nearly groaned aloud at the word _union_ ; for his part, Loki looked vaguely ill, and despite her own reaction Sif knew a moment's irritation at the expression he wore. Surely she was not so unattractive as   
to merit such a response: she was certainly a warrior, but this warrior was also a _lady_ , and a decently pretty one at that. None of her other lovers had ever complained.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Good," she said, lifting her chin in challenge. Loki looked over at her, surprised, but after a moment he stood straighter and nodded in agreement and acceptance of her challenge.

"If it pleases my _wife_ ," he drawled, studying his fingers as though there were nothing at all unusual about the word and its application to her, "then let it be so." 

+

Frigga's excitement aside, her own mother continued to express her displeasure at every possible opportunity, and rather than endure her railing and occasional weeping Sif retreated to the sanctity of the bifrost chamber and the calm, steadfastly reassuring presence of her elder brother. 

"How has this come to pass? Why has it befallen _me_?" she demanded, pacing in a quick circle around the ring where Heimdall placidly stood guard. "I rode out for battle and returned saddled with a _husband_." 

"I do not understand your trouble, sister, for you have long been _engaged_ in the service of this realm," Heimdall replied, and she whirled to glare at him, but he gave no indication that he spoke in jest. He never did, of course. She sighed. 

"I have served this realm all my life," she said. "But I do not know if this is the sort of service I will survive." 

"You have always wished for death in battle," he pointed out. She looked sharply at him again, but still his face remained as serene as ever, not even a muscle ticking that indicated he was joking. 

"How do you _do_ that?" she asked. 

"I do only my duty, sister," he replied, and she sighed and sat on the steps near his feet. 

"As do we all, I suppose," she said. "I only wish mine had been different. What do you see, brother, for me?" 

"To gaze into the future is not my gift, Lady Sif," he reminded her. "I see only what is and what has been. Still, have hope: perhaps you have not seen what you think you have." 

She frowned up at him, but he would not elaborate, and they lapsed into silence, the only sound in the chamber the noise of the waves lapping underneath the rainbow bridge. She stayed until her soul felt soothed, and then she took her leave of him. 

The calm she had regained by her brother's side was not to last, for as soon as she entered the palace, one of Frigga's attendants found her, saying that her presence was requested in Frigga's chambers. When she arrived, she found her own mother there as well, along with a small group of servants, each bearing a different pile of dresses. 

Sif was made to endure an endless parade of gowns and hair ornaments as her mother and Frigga debated the merits of each in combination with the other. For her part, she had never minded a traditional dress as long as she could fight in it if need be, but the rich, heavy fabrics of the gowns she was made to wear constricted her breath and her movement, and with her hair most always at her shoulders instead of up and neatly tied away, she felt trapped by more than just the idea of marriage. She wondered, after the fifteenth gown, how much worse this all might have been if she had married Thor instead, and for the first time since this nightmare began, she started to believe there might be _some_ measure of good in it. 

As irritating as the neverending line of dresses proved to be, at the very least Frigga's presence prevented her mother from continuing to tut constantly in disapproval. Still, after several excruciating hours of fittings that yielded only _one_ gown that met with her mother's exacting specifications, Sif was finished with this charade for the afternoon.

"Might we resume this tomorrow?" she asked, tapping her foot testily against the stone floor until her mother eyed her toes, dangerously close to treading on the starsilk fabric of the gown she was wearing. 

"What else do you have to do?" her mother grumbled, all the frustration she had been withholding finally spilling out. "Did you need to accidentally undertake some other scandalous thing? A _warrior_ , and wed to the wrong prince besides, what is left? Will you unseat the Allfather and rule Asgard yourself?" 

" _Mother_ ," Sif hissed, with a pointed look in Frigga's direction. To Sif's great relief, the Allmother chose to ignore the exchange, but there was no shame in her mother's gaze at what she had said. 

"Well?" her mother asked. "What answer do you have for me? What else had you to do today?" 

"I thought..." Sif began, considering what best to say. She had no intention of going anywhere except the training yard, but she doubted very much that such honesty would gain her her freedom, so on impulse she acted as she wryly supposed might suit a trickster's wife: she lied. "I thought I might ask Loki's opinion on the matter, as he has to stand next to me while I wear this ridiculous gown." 

"It should be a surprise," Frigga said, frowning thoughtfully. Sif watched Frigga's fingers curl over her mouth as she meditated upon Sif's request, and it occurred to her that though she had seen Loki in the same pose on hundreds of occasions, she had never yet connected it with his mother. It made her slightly more warmly disposed toward him; she had always had great respect for the Allmother.

"I suppose," Frigga continued, bringing her hand away from her face, "that there is little harm in speaking to him about it." 

"They are already married," her mother sighed. "Some allowances will have to be made." 

Sif's jubilation over her plan's success was short-lived, as Frigga decided to see her to Loki's chambers personally, despite her many protestations that the queen need not go out of her way. Frigga would hear none of them. 

"Nonsense, daughter," she said warmly, slipping her arm through Sif's as they walked. "It is close enough to my favorite garden, and I am always glad of an excuse to visit that place. I will walk with you." 

Her fate thus decided-- and did it not always seem to be thus, of late?-- she listened dutifully to Frigga's description of her nuptials, trying to keep the frown from her face as Frigga detailed the ceremony for what Sif was certain was the fortieth time. She sighed, glad at least that someone was pleased about all of this. 

Frigga parted ways from her at Loki's chambers, though to Sif's great regret the Allmother took the time to greet her son before she took her leave, ensuring that Sif could not slip away without also speaking to him. 

"Hello," she said dully, after Frigga had gone. He had been reading by the wide windows in his outer chambers, but he put down his book and stood when she spoke, returning her greeting with equal enthusiasm. 

"Hello. I did not expect to see you again until the--- until three days hence," he amended, rearranging his sentence so he could avoid the word _wedding_ , for which she was grateful. 

"Nor I you," she said, sighing, "but I needed an excuse to escape your mother and mine, for I swear by the stars, they have collected every gown in all the Nine Realms for me to be put into until they decide upon one that they like." 

At that, he seemed to begin to smile, and with a good will, too, but he stopped just short of it. "I see," he settled for saying, pressing his hands together. "So naturally you are here because...?"

Sif grimaced. "I told them I wanted your opinion on my gown," she said, and he raised an eyebrow at her confession. "I intended to go and fight in the yard, I did not expect your mother to _escort me to your chambers_."

"You really do need to learn to tell a better lie, my lady," he said, and at that, he did laugh, but she did not. 

"I suppose I now have a lying husband to teach me," she snapped, and his mirth evaporated, replaced by an irritation that she could see in the tense line of his shoulders. 

"Yes, well, you have made it abundantly clear what your opinion of _that_ subject is," he grumbled. 

"As have you," she returned. "I understand that I am nothing like any of the ladies at court that you have spent your time with over the centuries, but out of all the peoples in all the realms, Loki, I am hardly the worst wife you could have gotten." 

"I was not aware you paid so much attention to my habits at court," he said, and she let out a frustrated breath. 

"Stars," she swore. "This marriage will be the death of one of us." 

"I do not doubt that my days are numbered, for I have wed a _warrior woman_ ," he spat distastefully, and though she knew him well enough to know that he spoke not in earnest but rather out of a desire to anger her, still rage bubbled up inside her at the sting of the insult. 

She stalked over to where he stood, determined to return his derision in kind. "As are mine, since I have married a man who would rather play children's games with magic than wield a real weapon," she said, hatefully jabbing her finger into the unprotected flesh of his upper arm. 

"I would sooner have married a _mortal_ than you," Loki spat. 

"I would sooner have married a _Jotun_ ," Sif countered. 

He caught her hand with his own before she could punctuate her insult with another fierce stab of her finger, and it was only when she went to pull it away that she realized how close they were standing, hardly anything between them save a sliver of air. His face was flushed but his fingers were cool around hers; his eyes were alight with a passionate rage that stirred her blood in a way that made her forget some of her anger, trading it for the unmistakable pulse of desire. It occurred to her then that as they were already married, no one could fault them for whatever their passions might lead them to do; surprised at her own traitorous mind, she drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, but as he still had hold of her hand, this strange temptation to pull his lips to hers remained. He stared down at her hand as though he had never seen it before, never watched her fingers curve around the hilt of her sword to strike at a foe, never clasped it with his own for aid in the midst of battle. For the smallest space of a moment, she thought she glimpsed a kind of reverence in his eyes, but then he relinquished her fingers and stepped away, and whatever spell had overtaken them was broken. 

"Yes, well," Loki said, clearing his throat and returning to his couch by the windows, taking up whatever book had been occupying his mind before her arrival, "I am certain that you have stayed long enough that Mother will believe you have consulted me." 

Charity born of the strangeness that had passed between them stopped her tongue from making some further hurtful remark, and she settled instead for turning her deceit into some measure of honesty by soliciting his opinion, thinking at least if he had some input into whatever torturous thing they shoved her into on their wedding day, he might be less inclined to tease her about it later. 

"Lady?" he asked, frowning over at her as though he was surprised that she had not gone.

"I-- do you have a care what monstrous gown they put me in?" she queried. "If you did it might spare me an afternoon of misery tomorrow." 

The book hovered near his face, just over his mouth. "And what would that earn _me_?" he parried. 

"My goodwill," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I assure you that you may want to store it up, for I cannot imagine you will be accruing much of it." 

"I see," Loki said. The book came down as his hand came up to curl over his mouth, where she strongly suspected his lips were pressed together in an attempt to suppress an amused smile.

"Well?" she said. 

Loki sighed. "You needn't ask me to keep up appearances, lady. I may not have been your first choice for a husband, but I will keep _some_ of your secrets. Say whatever you like to Mother tomorrow, and I will vouch for it." 

Sif narrowed her eyes at this unexpected display of goodwill. "And what price must I pay for this?" 

"The first one is free," he drawled, and she laughed in spite of herself. 

"Thank you," she said, and he nodded. She made for the doorway, but paused halfway across the floor to turn back to him. "It was not so much the thought of marrying you that troubled me, you know, it was mostly the thought of marrying at all." 

He looked up again from his book, brow creased in confusion. "You were promised to my brother when we were children," he pointed out. "You must have become accustomed to the idea by now." 

She shrugged, exhaling a sigh. "It was always such a long way away," she explained. "When the time came for it, I cannot imagine I would have felt much differently than I do now." 

"I am hardly going to demand that you sit at home and do the cooking and mending," he said, and she laughed aloud at the very thought of it. 

"It is good that you are not, for I think you would find my idea of cookery to be somewhat unorthodox," she replied. 

"Oh?" he asked. "Surely the honorable Lady Sif would not steal food from Volstagg's table and attempt to pass it off as her own." 

"Of course not," she laughed, but then she paused, thinking. "I was going to say that I would be more likely to slay a dragon and haul its carcass down the bifrost to you to do with what you wished, but your idea was much simpler." 

"It was, but I do believe that you would carry yours out with a certain panache, lady," he said, and this time, he joined her in her mirth. "You would once again be the talk of all Asgard."

She sighed, her laughter slowly dwindling down until none was left. "That dubious honor seems to be mine more and more of late." 

She watched, chagrined, as the fingers of his left hand curled into his palm, grateful at least that she knew him as well as she did, that she could tell that he was angered by her allusion to the gossip surrounding their marriage, even though he made no overt indication of his feelings on the subject. 

"I have been the subject of gossip since I declared my intention to become a warrior," she reminded him. "They would not have brought you into at all, had it not been for me." 

"I think they will swiftly find that they will not talk about my _wife_ that way," he growled, and she stared at him, utterly shocked, not only by his statement, but the _ferocity_ behind it. Knowing him as she did, she had not expected such protective loyalty from him.

"You are not responsible for what people may say," she told him. "I am only sorry they have made you a part of it, though I do imagine your title may yet protect you from the worst of it."

He snorted. "I doubt that will be so. It has not stopped them laughing before." 

"No one laughs at you," she said, frowning in confusion. 

"You have," he said, slapping his book down upon the couch. "As has Thor, and the rest of your _friends_. Do not think it has escaped my notice. It most certainly has not."

She shook her head. This conversation was taking all manner of strange turns, and her head was dizzy following it. She had not known that he felt that their jocular good humor had ever been anything but the usual trouble that friends made for one another, and never the malicious thing he seemed to find it. "Loki, if we do have a laugh over your tricks, it is no more than we pass an amused moment at Volstagg's girth or Hogun's silence or Fandral's various _conquests_. It is friendly banter, no more, I swear it." 

"As you like," he said frostily. He stared pointedly at the doors that would bear her away from his chambers. "Please, do not let me keep you." 

"Very well," she said, but his thoughts troubled her, haunting her all the way to the training yard, and she found when she arrived that she would rather be in the place she had left, though she doubted very much that Loki would be glad of her company. 

Forsaking the busy yards, she walked alone along the corridors and through the gardens of the palace. She had never been one for reflection, always focused instead upon the tasks and glories ahead of her, but in the waning light of evening she wandered and meditated upon the past, searching her memories of her travels with Loki and the others. Hours passed, but she had yet to remember any incident that would have given rise to Loki's accusations. 

She did not understand his resentment, nor did she know of any way to find words to reassure him that he would believe were true. But as she walked on the crisp green grass of one of one of the smaller gardens, the verdant green of it gave her an idea that would solve two of her present problems. Smiling to herself, she returned to her own chambers with a lighter heart, and for the first night since they had returned to Asgard, her dreams were unencumbered by disastrous visions of the future. 

When the morning came, she rose and dressed and went to meet her mother and Frigga, ready again with a surfeit of gowns. 

"Before we begin, I have my own idea," Sif said, and began to explain what she wanted. 

\+ 

On the day appointed for the ceremony that would bind her forever to Loki in the view of all Asgard, Sif woke early, seeking a few peaceful hours to herself before she must devote her attention to other things and other people. Sitting, motionless, in the still silence of her own bedchamber, she gazed around the chambers that had been appointed to her long ago, on the day of her betrothal to Thor. In a few short hours, the sanctity of this space would be invaded by a seemingly endless stream of relatives and servants and handmaidens, helping her bathe, helping her dress, helping her to arrange her hair, and after all of that had been accomplished, they would transfer her belongings from this space to the chambers she would now share with her _husband_. Her eyes lit upon her swords and armor, her most prized possessions; she renewed her unspoken promise to glare daggers at whomever came to remove them. 

She did not relish the idea of forfeiting this space, though she knew that whatever portion of the palace they were appointed would be spacious. No doubt there would be private areas set aside in their sprawling new chambers for each of them, yet the thought of losing _this_ space felt like a capitulation. She found that she did not like the feeling, but then, little about this entire marriage had felt like any sort of victory. 

Sighing, she pushed her back against her pillows and arched her neck, eyes on the solid stone vaults of the ceiling. The ceremony, the new quarters, the wedding feast: that much her mind could encompass without too much turmoil. But when her mind turned to the portion of the evening when she would have to enter those quarters with Loki, each of them facing a shared life and a shared _bed_ , she found it entirely too much to contemplate.

She had no intention of taking him into her bed, nor did she think that he felt differently about her. But that odd moment from days before came back to her and gave her pause. They really should have spoken about this earlier. She slipped out of bed and walked to the wide windows overlooking the city, judging from the scant amount of light outside that it was not quite morning. Snatching up her robe from the couch at the foot of her bed and tying it loosely about her waist, she headed decisively for Loki's chambers, determined to resolve this matter immediately. 

Loki's chambers were both unguarded and unlocked when she reached them, and without any hesitation, she shoved open the doors and made her way into his bedchamber. She found him sleeping, but he was soon awakened by the sound of her voice. 

"I might have been an enemy," she declared. "And yet you lie there slumbering?" 

Loki smirked at her, but any reply she might have made was never uttered, for she felt a tap on her shoulder and immediately reached back to flip the villain on his backside. 

"Really, Sif," Loki groaned, staring up at her from his place on the floor, "is this any way to greet your husband on the morning of your wedding?" 

In the bed, the apparition vanished, and she swore under her breath. She had not fallen for that trick of his in centuries; truly she must be feeling out of sorts. 

"Odin's beard, Loki," she cursed. "Get up. We have matters to discuss." 

She did not offer him her hand, so he got to his feet unaided, and if she took a moment to admire the lean muscles in his arms and back that rippled as he made to stand, then at least there were no witnesses to her leering. Loki himself seemed rather preoccupied with pretending to be in more pain than he actually was, and therefore saw nothing.

"Oh, stop," she said, swatting at him when he rubbed at his ribs. "I did not throw you _that_ hard."

"I believe I'll be the judge of that," he countered, but he sat down on the bed and directed his attention to her regardless. With firm resolve, she did not stare further at his bare chest, though she did note with some pride that his eyes lingered longer than was strictly necessary on her legs in her short nightgown. She cleared her throat, and he met her eyes. 

"Yes?" he asked, with an innocence that did not at all suit him. He leaned back slightly on the bed, palms pressed into his bedclothing, bracing himself up with the strength of his arms, the posture putting the well-defined muscles of his stomach on display. That he was doing this on purpose, she hardly doubted; that it had an unfortunate effect on her, she knew for certain. Sif felt her face warming, and she silently cursed her own body's betrayal. Loki smirked at the blush on her cheeks and gave her a look so intensely lewd that even with all her considerable fortitude she had trouble maintaining eye contact. "What possible need of me could you have while I am half-dressed and alone in my bedchamber?" 

Thinking that perhaps she could beat him at his own game, Sif stalked slowly forward until her knees were inches from his, then leaned down to speak directly into his ear, her lips so close that they grazed his earlobe as she spoke, entirely aware that his eyes were perfectly level with her breasts. She pulled her shoulders up slightly higher, letting her nightgown fall open a bit more, pleased to hear the sharp intake of his breath. 

"We are not," she said slowly, drawing her words out like she was drawing a bow, "having sex tonight." 

To her great frustration, his response was to _laugh_ , a mellow, low sound that seemed to resonate so intensely throughout her body that she could feel it in her very bones. 

"You should choose your words more wisely, my lady," he said. "That does leave a number of future evenings unaccounted for." 

That strange charged moment from a few days before returned to her now as she considered the closeness of him. The long lean lines of his body, lithe but firm, tempted her, daring her to touch him; never in her life had she refused to do what she dared, and she did not intend to begin now. 

Before she could think of doing otherwise, she leaned forward and kissed him. 

It was a cold fire, a slow burn that she felt from her lips to her belly and below. Once their mouths parted and the kiss became one of teeth and tongue, she dispensed entirely with this fiction that there was no part of her that wanted him, for indeed most of her wanted him, and immediately. She could hardly deny it, not when the very blood in her veins urged her on, singing at her for more. She could not recall ever feeling a desire so powerful, save the few times in the heat of battle when all the foes around her had been slain and she looked around, demanding more, demanding a _challenge_. 

Here was a challenge, surely. She pulled back to look at him, a challenge of her own in her eyes; he wisely said nothing, for once in his long life. As a reward, she kissed him again, harder this time, and when his hands came to rest upon her hips she slid onto his lap, pressing her body against his. His pale skin was smooth underneath her fingertips; his thin trousers did nothing to keep his erection from pressing against her, and they both groaned when she leaned her hips forward and rocked against him. His mouth did absolutely delicious things to her neck while she ran her fingernails down the firm muscles of his back, wondering all the while why she had ever thought to deny herself this particular pleasure. Loki's hands slid up from her hips, caressing her underneath her nightgown; when the fabric restricted his movement, she leaned back and stripped it off, tossing it somewhere behind her. He laughed, but it was short-lived, for he soon turned his attention to this new expanse of skin she offered him. 

They were both of them so preoccupied that neither of them heard the servants enter until it was too late: by the time they registered the nervous apologies behind them, there was nothing to be done. 

"I should return to my own chambers, while they are still mine," she sighed, getting to her feet with a reluctance that startled her. 

"They've gone," he said, standing and reaching for her. "I thought we might finish what we began." 

"This is not why I came here," she told him, but her fingers lingered on his arm; when he leaned down to take her mouth again, she did not move away immediately. 

"I really must go," she said, bending to retrieve her nightgown and slip it back on. At his disappointed sigh, she raised an eyebrow. "You did marry me. I think it is possible that you may find me in a willing mood this evening." 

"Now, lady, how am I ever to trust anything you say?" he teased, crossing his arms over his chest. "You declared precisely the opposite when you came in here. Were you lying then, or now?" 

Her laughter echoed down the corridor as she made to leave. "You are more the liar than I am, my lord," she drawled, though her hips swayed as she walked, a teasing sort of promise in the movement. "I leave it up to you to discern that." 

+

She arrived back at her chambers just before the infinite parade of attendants and relatives. If they found her in decidedly better spirits than she had been in for the past several days, no one remarked upon it, and they set about preparing her for the day with a sense of purpose that rivaled that of Asgard's fiercest warriors. A bath was drawn; her hair was brushed and braided and adorned with golden ornaments; her skin was lotioned and powdered. When at last they brought in the dress, her mother frowned at first, but as soon as she emerged wearing it, even her mother's criticisms were laid to rest by the beauty of it. 

Foregoing the traditional white and gold gowns, bedizened as they always were with thousands of precious metals, had been entirely her idea. She was already wed, even if unwittingly so, and therefore she was not a traditional bride, she had pointed out, and she had heard no protests to the contrary. She wanted something she could fight in if need be, and while the thin material of this dress was hardly suited to stopping an enemy's blade, it tore easily enough, and she would not long be hindered by its length if she needed to shorten it quickly. It was entirely green, an homage to Loki that was anything but subtle; the bodice was looser, the thin material delicate against her breasts but tighter where it hugged the curve of her hips, fanning out to pool ever so slightly on the floor behind her as she moved, a whispered murmur of fabric that proved a quieter nod to Loki and his stealthy, silent grace in motion. 

Its only flaw was that it was far too light to allow her to carry any weapons. There was, however, a dagger strapped to her inner thigh, a secret known only to her, for she refused all aid in putting on the gown, only allowing the others to help thereafter with her hair. As she left her old chambers for the last time, Sif did not pause to gaze upon her reflection in the long mirror in her dressing room; she knew from the happy sighs of Frigga and the handmaidens that the dress suited her well. 

Loki met her at the entrance to the main hall wearing his own full dress armor; she suppressed the surge of irritation she felt that he had not been made to wear something different than he normally would for any formal occasion. His eyes went slightly wide when she came into view, but he said nothing, merely held his hand out for hers. If he cared at all for the gesture her gown represented, he did not remark upon it, but his fingers were firmer than strictly necessary around her own, which she took to mean that he was pleased. She marveled that she had bothered to please him at all, but then she felt his eyes on the slender curve of her neck and remembered with a shiver the events of the early morning. Still he said nothing, though she could see the smallest hint of a smile playing about his lips. 

The doors opened, and at last he spoke, just before they began to walk into the hall and greet the cheers of the assembled crowd beyond.

"Last chance to flee, my lady," he said, and though he was joking, she thought she discerned some insecurity in it nevertheless. 

She bore herself up proudly and pressed her fingers tightly around his. "I have never run from anything in my long life," she said firmly. "I am not about to begin now." 

"Such bravery," he said, leering down at her. "Let us hope it does not go _unrewarded_." 

"I would rather it were uninterrupted," she replied, raising an eyebrow, and so it was that their laughter preceded them into the hall. 

When at last they were visible to the crowd, a joyous shout went up, followed immediately but a murmuring. Sif assumed that it was owed as much to her striking gown as it was her choice of a husband and the scandal that surrounded this marriage, but then she caught a flash of an unexpected color in her peripheral vision, just near Loki's shoulder, and she turned her head fully to see what had caused it. Shocked, she nearly stopped walking to make certain that she had not been taken in by a trick of the light, but her eyes had not lied: where moments before, his armor had been its usual black, gold, and green, all the emerald had now turned to a deep maroon, the same color that normally adorned her armor. 

"Loki, what...?" she asked softly, but he made no reply; he only looked down at the cascade of green that sheathed her body and lifted his eyebrows, as if to say that such quiet gestures of mutual respect were not solely her provenance on this day. Indeed, such gestures might have been solely his domain, had he respected anyone enough previously to bother. That he might possibly have harbored this feeling for her before gave rise to some thoughts she did not wish to contemplate presently, though surely her wedding ceremony was an appropriate enough place to find herself more kindly disposed toward her husband than she had thought she might be.

The ceremony itself was mercifully short. The feast, however, was horribly long, and made longer still by her _husband_ , who was apparently determined to have his revenge for her untimely exit from his chambers earlier that morning, and had decided to exact it now. Like any skilled strategist, he waited until both her hands were occupied with her food and wine before he began his tortures, pinning her arm above the table by sliding close enough to her that their hips and thighs pressed together. Then he slipped his own arm underneath her elbow and leaned against her side all through the meal, free to subtly torment her with deliberate slow slides of his hand against her hip and up and down her thigh underneath the table. The thin material of her dress did not help matters; if anything the material enhanced the sensation. All of it made holding a conversation with those around her an extraordinary undertaking. 

After nearly an hour, she tried to step on his foot, but it was a futile gesture without her usual armored boots, so she put her mouth to his ear and whispered as fiercely as she could manage, "Stop it, or I will make you regret it later." 

"Will you?" he asked, his fingers exceedingly light on her thigh, just above the sheath of the dagger she had hidden there. His fingertips drew together in a smooth pleasant motion that made her shiver, and when he traced the line of the dagger all the way to its point and back up to the knob of its hilt, she had to cough to cover the moan that threatened to escape her throat. He watched her face, smiling, still lazily moving his fingers across her leg, and she closed her eyes and vowed to make him pay in kind when they were at last released from this celebration. "I wonder, lady, I really do." 

She could not help but feel, as he continued his clandestine ministrations, that her world had turned upside down while she watched: if anyone had dared suggest to her weeks before this night that she would not only be married to Loki, but that she would have found herself as hungry for the touch of his hand as she was for the glory of battle, she would likely have done that person a serious injury. 

But the proof of how much she ached for the slide of his hand against her skin was evident in the pink flush of her skin and the hot pulse of blood in her belly; even Loki, master of falsehoods that he was, could not have lied and said it was otherwise. Thereafter, she did not bother to request that he stop, she only wished that this damned feast would come to an end so that she could take him to bed.

Finally, just when she thought she might possibly perish from need, there was a lull in the festivities, and they stood to go, thanking their guests and ignoring some of the cruder remarks lobbed at them, mostly by the Warriors Three. Sif let it be known that they would answer for it in the yards if they continued, and they reined in some of their mirth, though they still shook from silent laughter, and Fandral raised a very knowing eyebrow at the blush on her cheeks. 

Loki engaged them in conversation for a time; Sif suspected that he was stalling only to torment her further, a suspicion that was confirmed when she tugged gently on his wrist to indicate that she would _very much like to go now, please_ , and received only a particularly wicked smile in return. 

"Loki," she said, a warning in her voice, but he only smirked at her, then cleared his throat and launched into what she already knew was going to be a tale of little purpose and excruciating length. She was not above picking him up and carrying him from the hall, but she decided that could wait until he had finished this story. If he tried this again, however, she vowed to haul him away by brute force if necessary. By Odin's missing eye, it should not be this difficult to get her own husband into bed.

She sighed and tapped her foot and listened to him go on and on. She was distracted, at least, by Thor, who came up to her while Loki was halfway through some retelling of an old story about the two of them in their youth. Thor beamed brightly down at her, and she gave him a happy smile of her own in return. 

"I am glad you are not angered at this strange turn of events," she told him. "I would not have willfully chosen a path that was different from the one our parents set us on, my friend." 

He clasped her hand warmly. "I know, sister," he said, and she smiled more fully at this familial affection. 

Her smile did not long endure. 

Some of the younger warriors, drunk on far too much mead and their own cleverness, had been causing something of a fracas at the other end of the hall for much of the evening, but as the evening had worn on they had moved closer and closer to the main table, jeering and cheering and generally making a nuisance of themselves. When one of them noticed her talking quietly with Thor and called out to Loki, making some lewd remark about the necessity of satisfying his wife before his brother could, the evening took a decidedly horrible turn. 

Sif was about to make him apologize to her fists, but then suddenly without word or warning, Loki was standing between her and Thor, his face a bitter mask of jealous rage. "What do you think you're doing?"

Thor's brows drew together in concern. "Brother, I was only congratulating my friend and welcoming her into--"

Before he could finish, Loki hit him, his fist crashing hard against Thor's face. Behind them, Sif could hear the conversation and merriment halt; even the young idiots who had started this were silent. 

"Into _what_? Or should I say _where_?" Loki demanded. 

Thor rubbed his jaw with one hand and waved the other in front of him. Sif could tell that he, too, was angry, but he kept his rage contained. "I will not fight you, brother, not about this." 

"Coward," Loki spat. 

"Loki," Sif hissed.

"You married _me_ ," he said, turning his angry gaze on her. "Not him." 

"Not by choice," she snapped, all her pent-up desire turning to rage in the space of a breath. "And I may be your _wife_ , but I am not your _property_. This is Asgard, not some other backwards realm." 

She had long understood that Loki was jealous of Thor; only a fool would have missed it. But this behavior was utterly indefensible, and she found herself not only insulted, but _embarrassed_. If it had not been for the timely intervention of Frigga and Volstagg, they would certainly have come to blows in front of the assembled crowd. As it was, they continued their argument all the long way back to their shared chambers, screaming at one another as Volstagg followed behind them to ensure that they made it to their destination alive. He left them outside the large double doors that led into their rooms, chuckling quietly to himself as he went; Sif shoved the doors open without another word and stalked inside, angered by everything, even the sight of the hem of her dress as it swished silently around her feet. She could not imagine why she had ever thought to try and pay him any respect at all; she would have ripped the damned thing from her body where she stood, but she refused to share any further part of herself with him.

As soon as the doors were closed, making a pleasant angry slamming sound, they both stood looking dubiously at the door that led to their shared bedchamber, arms crossed, fury radiating out at one another and filling the room up with exhalations of wrath. 

"You owe me an apology," she said finally, as calmly as she could manage. "And Thor besides, but you can begin with me." 

She fully expected him to say that he owed her nothing of the kind, but when he spoke, what he said proved to be far worse than what she suspected he would say. 

"Oh, yes," he said. "My dear Sif, and I am _so very sorry_ that I interrupted what would no doubt have led to a _thrilling_ evening with my brother." 

She had no idea what she threw at him, she just knew that it was large and heavy and aimed at his head. It turned out to be one of his books, something from his private library brought in from his old chambers; when he dodged it, it flew into the fire. 

She was not remotely sorry to see it burning, and when he scrambled to rescue it from the flames, nearly falling over in the process, she _laughed_ , no mirth behind it, only the memory of how troubled he had been by the laughter of others, even if it had not been designed to mock him, and the hope that this would sting just as much if not more so, since it had.

"Laugh at me again," he said, dropping what remained of the book to the stone floor, "and I will make you regret it." 

As much as she hated to admit it, some part of her thrilled at the dangerous note in his voice, the way it dragged across her skin like the memory of his fingers. Her traitorous body once more took up the chorus that demanded more of his touch, ached for his skin against hers. She shook her head, trying to silence her body's odious requests.

"I would like to see you try," she said, holding her head up proudly. 

"Have a care, lady," he said, taking serpentine steps toward her. "I know where you sleep." 

"Yes, anywhere but where you are," she replied, resolutely not closing the distance between them, even though her body begged her to do so. 

"You did not not seem overly troubled by the idea over dinner," he said. 

"That was before you trusted the drunken shouting of an idiot youth over my loyalty and that of your own brother," she bit out, and he flinched as though she had struck him, but he did not repent or display a hint of remorsefulness. "But rest assured that I will not spend all my days from now until Ragnarok celibate, and if we are not for each other, then I suggest we rely upon the fine old tradition of taking lovers, and sooner rather than later." 

"I care not," he said, the snap in his voice standing in opposition to his profession of nonchalance. "Anyone so long as it is not my brother." 

"And what if it were?" she returned, though she had absolutely no intention of pursuing such an affair. It gave her a vicious pleasure after all the embarrassment he had caused her to see the jealous look upon his face; suddenly she felt she understood his predilection for using words as weapons. 

"Well," he said tightly. "This is an auspicious beginning, isn't it?" 

"It should have been," she told him, and without another word, she turned and stalked down the corridor to what she dearly hoped would be her own private bedchamber.

When she saw her swords and armor in the corner, neatly displayed as they had been in her old chambers, she sagged against the door, almost tearful with relief. She looked down at her hands, rubbing at the place on her palm where that hateful rune had appeared that started all this, and wondered how her life would ever be the same. 

+

Weeks passed. Still they slept apart and avoided one another as much as possible.   
They coexisted in their shared quarters when necessary, taking their meals in a frozen silence she found preferable to another fruitless argument. On a handful of occasions, Loki looked at her with a curious expression on his face, and each time she waited, hoping for an apology that was never forthcoming. Her nascent hope that this unexpected marriage would somehow yield equally unexpected good died a quiet death, and she resumed traveling to other realms without him, going alone or with the Warriors Three and Thor, working out her frustration with her fists and feet and blades. 

Her anger at him was perhaps matched only by her desire for him, for memories of the brief moments of passion they had shared on the day of their wedding still returned to her, all unbidden, staining her cheeks with a faint red blush, and always at the worst possible times. More than once, she thought of letting go her need for an apology for his reprehensible behavior and dragging him into their as yet unused shared bedchamber to finally finish what they had began, months before. Somehow, she did not think he would take much convincing. She knew he looked at her in the evenings as she took down her long hair, brushing out the inevitable tangles that arose in the course of her daily fighting and training; she knew that those looks held the same kind of longing that she still felt. 

But she had not become a warrior to surrender, and she refused to take him into her bed until he acknowledged that he had been in the wrong. In her more forthright moments, she knew that she owed him an apology of her own, but her sins were private, and his had been public, and she would never have laughed at him or used her words against him if he had but trusted her.

On the days when her resolve wavered and she felt she might give in, she spent long afternoons with Heimdall, not speaking, calmed by the waves and by his presence. She avoided the libraries, though she had often passed a pleasant morning in them, reading glorious tales of Asgard's past, both her own and those of warriors already gone on to Valhalla. She remembered quieter days long ago when she and Loki and Thor were children, how they used to sit on the lawn in the garden and read to one another, then spring up to re-enact the legends they had read. She missed those days now that they were gone, days before Loki had decided they somehow thought him less than Thor, before he had let that alter his disposition. 

Her memories made her more charitable, and one afternoon while he was out she crept into his bedchamber and left a book of old tales on the table at his bedside, marked to the page of one of his favorites and hers. It was not an apology, not quite, but it was a start. He never thanked her, but the silence between them grew warmer, at least, and that was enough of an improvement for the present. 

\+ 

Later she would mark the moment that it all began to change for the better, though it did take her by surprise at the time, as had this entire affair. Loki had unexpectedly appeared in the training yard where she was working on a new fighting technique, some style attributed to the Vanir. 

Volstagg noticed Loki lurking around the edges of the ring and called him over before he could slip away, saying, "Loki! Come and join us! Your wife was about to teach Fandral not to challenge her when she has gone undefeated all day." 

"Again?" Loki asked, reluctantly coming to stand between Volstagg and Hogun. "Do you not deliver this lesson to Fandral at least once a century, lady?" 

For his compliment, she nodded her silent thanks, and he bowed his head. "It is a lesson he never learns," she replied, brandishing her sword at Fandral, who grinned and rushed her. She took him to task in short order, for this new technique made disarming a foe almost too easy. 

"Well done," Loki said. "Honestly, Fandral, you should know better than to challenge her like that, you will always lose. You lack _finesse_." 

"I'll have you know I have plenty of finesse where it counts," Fandral laughed. 

"I'm sure," Loki drawled, and Sif could not help but laugh. 

"I suppose you could do better, since you are her husband," Fandral retorted, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip where Sif's knee had split it. He waved his hand at the ring. "Go on then, I'd like to see you defeat her, then, and not with your silver tongue, either. Please do keep private matters out of the ring." 

Loki's pale face reddened; Volstagg and Hogun chuckled, at least until Sif glared at them. 

"Well?" Sif asked, lifting her sword, the point toward Loki. "What say you?" 

Wordlessly, he stepped into the ring, hands at his sides. Where the dagger came from, she could not say, for his hands never moved; still she felt it behind her, heard it singing through the air on its way toward her. She deflected it without thought or sight, swinging her bracer into it behind her back, sending it spinning dangerously off toward the stone seats where their friends watched them fighting. 

Loki looked surprised at her speed, but did not remark upon it. "Careful," he said instead, his smile full of teeth. "I am certain our friends would like to keep the use of their eyes." 

"Our friends will survive," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Will you?" 

He laughed, and the curve of his lips reminded her of how they felt against her skin, warm and cool at the same time. She shook herself, willing this wave of desire to desert her for now, or if it would not, that at least it would heat her blood and make her fiercer, stronger, help her to win this match. 

Loki misinterpreted her movement for the precursor to an attack, and though usually his strategies were more subtle, this time he did not wait and use trickery, instead launching a fullscale attack of his own, not unlike her own fighting style. Her shield sizzled when his spells hit it, the friction of it sending a frisson up her spine; she harnessed that nervous energy and used it to her advantage, getting in a swift kick against his ribs when he moved too close. He tried his magic again, though this time with more of his usual mischief, the illusion of fifty mocking tricksters surrounding her, a trick that always gave her trouble when they were younger. This time, however, it did not: she knew, somehow, where he would really be standing, just as she had known about the dagger, and her shield hit him firmly in the stomach. The false Lokis disappeared, their laughter replaced by the cheering of their friends. Pleased, she waited, expecting more magic, but instead he took up a sword from the nearby rack of weapons, swinging it to test its balance. 

"Do you know how to use that?" she taunted, and he made a motion at her with his fingers. 

"Come here and find out," he said, and if her blood pounded harder in her veins at that it was not because of their fighting. 

She stalked forward on the balls of her feet, her own sword at the ready, awaiting some trick, but there was none: his sword clashed against hers again and again as they fought each other all over the yard, until finally, unexpectedly, he prevailed, knocking her sword from her hand with a vicious kick to her wrist, a move she had used on him in countless sparring sessions in their youth, but one he had never before employed to good effect. 

Defenseless but unwilling to surrender, she searched for anything she could use to distract him. Were Loki in this situation, she knew, he would hardly consider himself defenseless, for he still retained the use of his wicked tongue, and that was when she realized that she was not entirely without any recourse. 

She widened her eyes and looked at a point just behind him. "Thor?" she asked, putting as much concern and worry as she possibly could into just one word. "What has happened?" 

To her astonishment, her lie worked: Loki believed her ploy to be the truth, and as soon as he turned to face the empty air behind him, she leapt upon him, her arm tight around his neck, wrestling him to the ground, one leg on either side of his waist, resolutely ignoring the pulse of lust she felt at landing in this particular position. The dagger she had deflected earlier lay by her knee, and she snatched it up before he could, laying the blade against his throat. 

"Why, Lady Sif. You _lied_ ," he said, disbelief mixed with something akin to admiration coloring his voice. 

"You did tell me it was a skill I should learn," she reminded him, smirking. "Do you yield?" 

He glanced over her shoulder, but she was not deceived. "I don't suppose I could convince you that Asgard is under attack and there's a horde of trolls behind you," he joked. 

"If anyone could, it would be you, I am certain," she laughed. "But no, I don't suppose you could." 

He sighed. "Then you have your victory, my lady, for I yield." 

She studied his face curiously, for there was something in it that she could not immediately decipher, something more than a willingness to give up this particular fight. It would be very like him, she thought, to apologize without apologizing at all: it would also be very like him to pretend to apologize to get what he wanted, and from her position atop him, she could tell exactly how much he wanted her. It was only left to her to decide what she wished to believe.

"Very well," she said, sliding off him. If her leg happened to graze his erection as she did, well, that was surely a careless mistake. 

Their friends rejoined them as Loki got to his feet, congratulating Sif on her victory. 

"Well done," Volstagg declared, slapping her on so hard on the back that she nearly tumbled into her husband. "You are undefeated again today." 

"Hogun came very close to a win," she reminded them, and Hogun inclined his head in thanks.

"I almost had you," Loki observed, and she shrugged. 

"Until you fell upon your own sword," she said. 

"Ha! Another hit for you, Sif. We will have to rename you Lady Silvertongue," Fandral laughed, clapping his hands, and though the name might once have angered her, for today it made her smile. Sif gave him a little bow. "Nicely done, Lady." 

Loki looked down at her. "And would you accept such a title, my lady?" 

She shivered at the look he gave her, possessive and wanting; again she wondered what her friends would do if she took what she wanted right here in the yard. Disperse immediately, she hoped. 

"I think I might," she answered, watching as a slow smile that spread across his face. She offered him her arm. "Shall we dine in our chambers this evening, husband?" 

"I think we should," he said. 

When they returned to their chambers, she wasted no time in shoving him up against the nearest wall and kissing him so hard she knew their lips would be bruised. Stars, she wanted him, with or without that damned apology; she could feel his arousal hard against her hip, and she knew he wanted her as well. 

"You still owe me an apology," she said, as she pulled him toward their bedchamber, undoing the thousand benighted buckles of his armor as they went. 

"I thought I gave you one," he said, speaking against her neck, his voice vibrating in the hollow space between her neck and collarbone. His teeth grazed her shoulder and she moaned; she could feel his smile against her skin. "Though if you simply cannot get enough of me, I do understand." 

"That remains to be seen," she teased, though if his deft removal of her armor was any indication of the cleverness of his hands, she doubted very much that she would ever have enough of this; when at last they were skin to glorious skin, she knew it for certain.

"Are you really still angry with me, lady?" he asked, dragging his tongue and teeth down her thigh toward her clit. 

"Furious," she sighed, a wave of bliss washing over her as his warm mouth surrounded her, his tongue making a scrambled mess of her mind with every perfectly timed slide, every tug of his lips. He licked and sucked and moaned against her, the vibration of the sound resonating in time with the pulsing of her blood and finally pushing her past the edge of conscious pleasure.

He licked his lips and stared hungrily up at her. "You don't care for me at all, I think," he said, teasing her with his words as his fingers did the same to her cunt, long fingers sliding in and out of her, never quite with the pressure or the force that she craved. 

"I absolutely hate you," she said, panting, the curve of her lips and the warm tone of her voice entirely at odds with her words. She held her hand out for him. "Now come here." 

He took his time complying with her request; if she hadn't been aching with the need for him to hurry, she would have been impressed with his resolve, for she could see and feel how hard he was for her. Whether it was fueled by some hidden reserve of patience or driven by some infinite capacity to drive her mad, he made the slowest possible progress, pausing every few seconds to kiss some different part of her skin. The reverence she had glimpsed in his eyes months ago returned to his mouth now, and she stopped wishing for him to hurry and let him take all the time he wanted. She brought her knees up to his ribs, not to rush him, but to let them rest there, to have more of her skin against his; he turned his attention away from the space between her breasts and kissed her knees and along her thighs up to her hips, retracing the steps his mouth had already taken. 

A goddess knew what it was to be worshipped, but she had never known worship like this. She reached for him, intent on giving back some of the pleasure she was receiving, but he batted her hand away and resumed his long slow path up to her mouth. When at last he reached it, the kiss he gave her was like none she had ever had, soft and then hard, loving and then not. 

"I don't think I do hate you," she said softly, when he pulled his lips from hers. 

"Nor I you," he said, bending to kiss her again, and this time when she went to wrap her hand around his cock he did not push her hand away, but rather groaned and pushed into the tight circle of her fingers. 

" _Sif_ ," he said, and if she had thought his mouth had been worshipful before, it was nothing compared to the sound of her name on his lips at that moment, a plea and a petition in only one word. She forgave him his earlier transgressions without another thought. If he chose to make amends later, that would be up to him, but she could not find it in her heart to demand it again.

"Yes," she said, answering a question he had not asked. She nudged his ribs with her knees again, making a plea of her own; for answer, he reached down for her hand, still wrapped around the hard length of him, and working in tandem they fit their bodies together. 

She kissed him as he slid into her, sighing against his mouth at the fullness of him and pushing her hips up to meet his, but allowing him to set their pace. From the frustrated crease of his brow, she guessed he meant to take his time, but all their indiscretions had finally caught up to him and the slow, controlled thrusts he made at first quickly turned into faster, wilder movements that left both of them gasping for breath. In the midst of her own building passion she watched him lose all the careful control he kept of himself, eyes wide, mouth open, his face a portrait of a thousand different emotions that she possessively wanted no one else to ever have a chance to see. The thought that this was _hers_ and hers alone drove her all the way past the brink, the sound and fury of it taking him with her, his name on her lips and hers on his as they shouted their bliss to the ceiling. 

"I think possibly we should do that again," he proposed, slumping down next to her. "As you've decided you don't hate me." 

"We should," she agreed. Before she could think better of it, she kissed his forehead; he blinked in surprise, but he did not move away. "Now is a fine time." 

"Of course," he laughed, stifling a yawn. "Immediately." 

She smiled up at the ceiling as he closed his eyes, and they fell asleep curled around each other, long limbs tangled together as they slept.

When she woke the next morning, he was already gone; she considered it to be his loss if he did not want to begin the morning as they had ended the evening, and when she left their chambers she did not return until the light had faded from the sky. 

Upon her return, she found a slender box awaiting her outside the door to her own bedchamber. The box was of too short a length to contain a sword, and too wide to be some manner of ornament for her body. Curious, she bent to pick it up, running her hands over the top and over the designs carved into the wood before prying open the lid with careful fingers.

Inside lay two beautiful silver daggers, their balance and weight so perfect, their blades so smooth and sharp, that they practically sang when she lifted them from the box and pulled them through the still air. She stood there admiring them for so long that she almost missed Loki's soft footfalls at the opposite end of the corridor, but hear them she did. Smiling in a wicked manner that befit her _completely mysterious_ benefactor, she gripped the handle of one of the daggers and hurled it toward him, perfectly aimed. It flew within inches of his ear on its path to the wall behind him, settling into the ornamental wood there with a rewarding _thunk_. 

Loki looked from her to the dagger embedded in the wall and back again. "Am I to understand from this that my gift is acceptable, wife?" he asked, spreading his hands.

"Was it a gift, husband?" she returned, stalking down the hallway toward him, putting a bit more sway into her hips than was strictly necessary. When she reached him, she leaned into him, deliberately sliding her body against his when she extended her arm to retrieve the dagger from the wall. She pulled it out with a quick tug, running the dull side of the blade over the outside of his arm until he shivered. 

"What else would it have been, my lady? Surely not this _apology_ you've been after." 

"Surely not," she said.

"I have heard the term before, but I confess I am entirely unfamiliar with its meaning," he continued. "Could you explain?" 

"And what words might I give to such a silvertongued rogue as you?" she teased. "I am sure you already have them in your arsenal, it is only left to me to teach you how to arrange them into a believable expression of remorse." 

"Therein _lies_ the problem," he smirked. She rolled her eyes; he took one long finger and traced the dull edge of the blade she still held. It reminded her of the way his fingers lingered on her skin, and she shivered with anticipation. "What would I say that you would believe?" 

"I doubt very much that you have avoided issuing an apology because you thought I would not think it truthful," she said, and he shrugged. "I think perhaps you simply have not been very apologetic." 

He tapped the hilt of the dagger, his fingers brushing over hers in the process. "Perhaps I thought this overture might be more fitting for a woman so devoted to actions, though now that you have earned a new name for yourself, _Lady Silvertongue_ , perhaps I was mistaken." 

"I think," she said, carefully setting the daggers and the box on a nearby table, "that I intend to encourage this newfound commitment to action." 

She did. 

+

The months marched onward, and they continued to live as she supposed many married people did: sometimes pleasant with one another, sometimes not. But as time went steadily forward, their fighting was done more out of sport or habit, no real malice behind their insults, no real desire to wound in their hands or their hearts. More and more she saw in him the friend of her youth, the boy who teased her with a light heart and the young man who made her laugh until she hurt. 

She watched him fighting with Thor in the training yard for a while one day before slipping away, unnoticed by either of them; she never asked him later what had transpired, but she was glad to see some of his bitterness begin to wane. 

She was changing, too, learning from him as she thought he was learning from her. Her steps in the ring were slower, more considered; she found that she rushed less and waited more, and this subtle change in tactics earned her many an easier victory. 

"This has all been very strange," she said one night as they lay side by side, bodies aligned from shoulder to hip. She reached for his hand, pressing her palm to his; he watched her with lazy, hooded eyes before parting his fingers to slide them neatly between the spaces of hers. 

"Surely you jest," he drawled, and she kicked gently at his shin with her bare toes. "How could you have failed to foresee that we would wed and yet refrain from murdering one another in the space of a day?" 

"Truly my family's gift of sight has forsaken me," she yawned, shifting around to lie on her side so she could study his face in profile. "Though I do wonder what you really thought that spell would do." 

She watched the smile spread across his face, slow and warm like the dawn. 

"Will you know all my secrets now, lady?" 

"If you will trust me with them," she said, and he turned to look at her, searching her face, though for what she could not say. Dishonesty, perhaps, but she knew he would find none: as surprising as it was, she felt a strange kind of loyalty to him, and she meant what she said. She would keep his secrets, if he but entrusted them to her.

"It was a spell for strength," he said at last. "I thought it might add more power to my spells."

She groaned. "Of course you did. You are already the best magician the realm has, save the Allfather. What would you have even done with more power?" Another thought occurred to her, and she sat up, glaring indignantly down at him. "Wait, what purpose was I to serve in this particular ritual?" 

"You weren't supposed to be part of it at all," he told her, merry mischief dancing in his green eyes as he looked up at her. "I did try and talk you out of it." 

"So I recall," she drawled. "Go on." 

"It was meant for one person only," he explained, waving his hand. "The spellbook had a note about its use for two, but it said the resulting strength would be shared by both." 

"And you wanted it all to yourself," she concluded. 

"Do you blame me?" 

She stared at him, considering it, weighing what she knew of him now and what she knew of him then. 

"Not at the moment," she said finally, settling back against the covers. "Ask me again later." 

+

A year to the day of their fated expedition to Nidavellir, she was wandering the library, searching for a book on weaponry that she much desired to read again, when she came upon an old text whose spine promised that it detailed binding spells. She pulled it from the shelf and opened it up; it fell from her hands before she read a word. The book lay open where she had dropped it, and she cursed her momentary clumsiness before bending to pick it up. The drawing on the page arrested her attention; she recognized the spell being performed, for it was the same spell that had bound her to Loki. 

"A spell for strength," she read aloud, running her fingers over the edges of the pages, smoothing them down, taking great care not to smear the ancient ink of the runes. "For warriors. No, one warrior."

Her translation skills had long lingered unused, but she found as she read along that she remembered more than she might have thought. She read on, eyes scanning the text. The spell was meant only for one person to use; if two attempted it, the strength of arms it promised would be shared. She laughed aloud, remembering Loki's irritation when she had insisted that the two of them participate in the spell: he had not wanted to _share_. But was she stronger now? Curious, she shifted the heavy tome to one hand and flexed her fingers on the spine. The strength of her hands did not seem particularly enhanced; they supported the book as they always would have, and her swords and shield besides. 

Was it possible that the priestess had erred? Had the spell not worked at all? Had she and Loki married for no reason? 

She was surprised to find herself contemplating all of this without much anger save mild irritation: perhaps she had never intended any of this to happen, but they had learned each other, this past year, and where a year ago she might have been wrathful, now she found that if this was a mistake, it was one she could live with. But though the thought did not haunt her as it might once have done, if this had all been for naught, she still imagined that they would both like a _word_ with that priestess. 

Frowning, she considered the strange runes that had marked their skin briefly after the spell had ended, the magic she had felt wrapping around the two of them, the way it had seemed to steal the very breath from her lungs at the same time that it pushed more in. Perhaps the error was in her translation. 

She read the passage again, and there, on the fourth line, she found her mistake: the verb that she had presumed, given Loki's explanation, meant _to share_ did not have that meaning in this context. It meant more _to trade_. She flexed her fingers again. Her hands had never done any magic, she hadn't the talent for it. So what had they traded?

Taking the book with her, she strode quickly back to her chambers, finding Loki in the midst of a meal. 

"Have you seen this?" she asked, setting the book down near to him, taking pains to avoid settling the spine against the food that spilled over the plates on the table. 

Loki eyed the pages she set in front of him, scanning the text, then waved his hand dismissively. "Useless book," he said, reaching for his glass of wine. "It has the spell that I thought that priestess was doing, but as we know, that did not go as planned. I suppose my magic has been somewhat more powerful of late, but not as much as I had hoped, as I presume your fighting has been."

Sif frowned; it appeared she was not the only one who had misread the translation. "Yes, I saw the line about sharing strength, but that is not what it says," she disagreed, and pushed the book toward him, tapping her finger next to the relevant line. 

He studied the line; she could tell the moment he deciphered his mistake, for he nearly upset his wine glass in his haste to grab the book and pull it closer, eyes flicking back and forth over the lines of runes. "I made an error," he said, astonished. "My translation was wrong." 

She could not keep the smirk off her face, but she did manage to hide it quickly behind her hand. "It was an easy mistake to make," she said. "I misread it the first time myself." 

"But what does it even mean, trading strength," he said, reading again. He looked up at her, brows drawn together. "Have you suddenly discovered a talent for magic that you have neglected to mention?" 

"No," she said. "And you? Have you suddenly desired to take up arms instead of magic and daggers?" 

"No," he said, just as emphatically. His hand came up to curve over his mouth as he thought, fingers tapping against his chin in an offbeat rhythm. "The strength of my magic has been the same as ever." 

"I have not found my own strength has been different of late, either," she remarked. "So we have not traded anything, and we have not either of us been altered individually. What remains?" 

He closed the book with a frustrated snap. "I do not know," he said. 

"I confess I do not understand how any of this resulted in a marriage," she said, and though she meant it in jest, his reply was serious, a hardness in his face that she had not glimpsed in months.

"Nor do I," he said. He stared out across the city, then cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes when he spoke again. "I suppose we should journey back there and demand some manner of explanation. Perhaps we shall be rid of one another after all." 

"Perhaps," Sif said. The sound of her own voice was as a dull blade, and the food on the plates before her suddenly seemed unpalatable. 

"Then that matter is settled," he said, and she nodded, silent and uncertain. 

She should be happy, surely. If the spell had not worked, then there was no reason for this. She could resume her old life, her old chambers. Nothing would prevent them from passing an evening together if they chose. Nothing, except perhaps the coldness that wrapped around her heart when she considered how quickly his mind had turned toward dissolving whatever they had between them. Had it meant so little to him? 

It had certainly meant something to her, but what that was, she refused to name. 

The rest of the meal they ate in an awkward, interminable silence, and when they rose from the table to make for bed, they did not go together. 

\+ 

She slept fitfully without the comforting rhythm of his breath at her side, and when she met him the next morning at the gates to the city to ride down to the bifrost chamber, she still felt only half awake. The ride down the bridge cleared some of the sleepy malaise from her mind, but did nothing to ease the hurt of the previous evening, nor did it soothe the new wounds she felt when he barely spoke to her, all the easy good humor of the last year vanished utterly. 

Odin was speaking to Heimdall in the bifrost chamber when at last they arrived; they bowed to him, hands over their hearts. 

"Good morning, son and daughter," he greeted them, bidding them rise. "Where in the realms do you travel today?" 

"Nidavellir," Loki said shortly. "We seek an audience with the dwarves who wed us." 

_To end what they began_ , Sif added bitterly, but her voice was only in her mind. Heimdall stared between them, but said nothing; she did not meet his eyes. 

Odin shook his head. "This may not be the best time for your journey, my son," he said. "That realm has been troubled with fire demons of late. We have offered to send aid, but they have refused our help."

"Then it is all the more imperative that we go now, Father," Loki said. "If the dwarves who performed the ritual are slain, we will never have the answers that we seek." 

_And we will be bound together needlessly for eternity_ , she thought he might say, but he fell silent then instead, awaiting the Allfather's decision.

"Very well," Odin told them, and they bowed their heads at his decision. "But do not engage this enemy, should you come across them. The dwarves will see it as an insult, and we have too long been friends with the people of that realm. I will not have our alliance broken by the rash actions of my children, and if you seek a fight, Heimdall will not bring you home." 

"Yes, Allfather," they promised, and he waved them on, nodding at Heimdall, who sent them on their way without a word. 

They trekked on in silence, over the hills and mountains that would lead them to the encampment of dwarves they sought. Loki seemed to know the way, and she did not question it, merely followed wordlessly behind him, always listening for the sound of foes moving nearby. 

When they did encounter enemies, it was not fire demons, not at first. They came over a low hill to find a camp at its base, a small army of men spread out across the rocky ground. She saw no banners flying above their tents, no colors to indicate their loyalties, and she knew them for what they were. These were mercenaries, a rogue band of roving men who held no allegiance to any realm, only to gold and the other luxuries their services earned them. She hated them on principle, and she would sooner see them dead at her feet than speak one word in their hateful ears. But some sense of caution stayed her hand, kept her from the attack, and brought a lie to her lips instead when they were caught out by a guard and called to state their purpose.

"You will let us pass, if you would not risk the anger of your... _employers_ ," she said, her voice as rough as the man looked. 

"You trying to tell me that Surtur's got ladies working for him now?" the sentry said, raising an eyebrow. 

She smiled at him, the curve of it vicious and sharp like the daggers she carried. "Have you ever seen a lady fire demon?" 

"No," the sentry said. 

"Then how do you know we do not fight?" 

To her great relief, Loki took her meaning instantly, his subtle magic producing a low-level flame that flickered just behind her, illuminating her swords and reflecting in her eyes. From where they stood, she dearly hoped the distance between the two of them and the sentry would make it look as though it had come from her. 

When she heard the sentry's audible gulp, she knew their trick had worked, but still she held her breath as they passed by. 

"Thank you for your assistance," she said, once they were well enough away that they could speak without being overheard, halfway up the rocky path that would lead them deep into the mountains and the settlement that they sought. 

"Thank you for dissembling instead of attacking them," he replied. 

"I am no fool," she sighed, her heart heavy and sad. "I know certain defeat when I see it." 

"Lady Silvertongue would have suited you perfectly well, I think," he said, and she nearly stumbled over a stone in her disbelief at his cruelty. He was himself no fool, and surely he knew that this thing they had shared was nothing she wanted taken from her, and she regretted everything she had allowed herself to share with him. 

Angry and overwrought, she made no reply; unwanted emotion choked the life from the words she most wanted to say. Instead she charged past him up the path, determined that if this nameless thing must be wrestled from her, that it would be sooner and not later. 

+

They slept that night in the mouth of a cold cavern, shielded from sight by columns of rock. It was chilly, but they kept to opposite sides of the cave. Hard rock pushed against her legs and back while she lay there trying not to remember what it felt like to have him next to her while she slept. She harbored some hope that this had affected him even slightly, but every time she turned her head he gave every appearance of peaceful slumber, and she soon resolved to keep her eyes shut instead. With any luck, tomorrow this would all be over, one way or another, and they could return to Asgard, where she could distract herself with fights and friends. 

The morning brought luck with it, but not the kind of luck she wanted. 

It was not an ambush, it was merely poor timing, but they were surrounded all the same. A ring of fire demons closed in on them, smoke and flame separating them from each other; Loki shrouded himself in a shadowy magical cloud and disappeared entirely from her sight. Odin's command to avoid engaging this enemy echoed in her ears as she cursed aloud at Loki's disappearance: she herself had no more tricks to use, only the strength of her hands and the determination of her heart. They had her cornered, and her choices were to fight or to perish, so she brandished her blades and made a run at them, screaming her fury and frustration as she ran. 

She never reached them. A clear blue ring of light shot over her head, landing on the ground just before her feet with a noise like a thunderclap; it arched over her head like a net, and she thought she was caught. But then one of the fire demons advanced upon it, making straight for her, only to howl in pain and surprise when it reached the blue barrier that surrounded her. 

"That won't do," someone said, and Sif looked over, astonished, to find Loki standing next to her, pale and shaking from the force of this spell he had cast. 

"What is this?" 

"You have your shield as I have mine," he said, and she regarded the crackling magic around them with wonder, for she had not known he could do such a thing. "They will not get through while it holds."

"I thought you had gone," she told him; for a moment she thought that he looked hurt that she should say so, but then the pain, if pain it was, passed from his face. 

"We did have our orders, my lady," he reminded her. "We are not to fight these demons." 

"And since when have you obeyed orders?" she demanded, and he shrugged, or tried to: even that slight motion seemed difficult for him. She stepped closer, laying her hand on his arm, concerned. "How long will this spell last?" 

"An hour at the most, less so if we move from this place. I can make it follow us, but not without cost," he admitted, and at her rueful sigh, he continued, "perhaps if we had more mages here, it would be possible. But I do not have the strength to do this alone." 

"You are not alone," she reminded him. "You still have me." 

"For now," he said, a sadness in his expression that gave her pause. Why should he be sad to see her go? Was that not the point of this entire excursion? She wanted to believe that they had each misunderstood the other's motivations for coming here, but in all the tender moments they had shared of late, never had either of them actually _said_ that they cared. But would it even have been so? She considered the daggers at her side, thought of the book she had left for him, the smile that crossed her lips when he called her _Lady Silvertongue_ , and the smile that crossed his when her friends tried to tease her with the same. The memories of these things renewed her hope that perhaps they had admitted their affections in their own strange ways after all. 

"I don't suppose we can lie our way out of this one," she proposed, and at his raised eyebrow, she reached for his hand and added, "I confess I have become somewhat fond of my new title." 

"Have you, really?" He looked down at her with an expression she found she could not parse, but he did not move away from her, so she held tight, encouraged by his stillness. "Lady, we should run while we still can. If for some reason this spell fails us, you should leave me and return to Asgard as quickly as you can." 

"No," she said flatly. She shook her sword at their enemies, gathered beyond the spell-shield, waiting. "Let the barrier fall while you still have some of your strength left. We will stand and fight them together." 

He shook his head and dropped his hand away. "You know our orders. We came here to unravel our own mystery, and we are forbidden to interfere in this matter. We have done more than enough already." 

"I am _not_ leaving you," she told him, and from the look on his face she knew that he had understood that she was not only referring to this battle: for the first time since he had suggested they come here, he looked at her like he _saw_ her again. She sheathed her sword and put her hands on his chest. "Look around. Neither of us can take all these foes on alone." 

"You are a warrior of Asgard, you swore an oath to obey your king," he said, his hands over hers. 

"And while I was out fulfilling it, my heart swore another," she confessed, as close a profession of love as she had ever yet given him, and perhaps the closest she might ever come. His face was painted with disbelief as he brought one of his hands up to her face, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.

"I thought we came here because you wanted this undone," he said, and she shook her head fiercely.

"I never said that," she reminded him. "I came with you because I thought it was what _you_ wanted." 

"Lady, I swear to you that it was not," he admitted, and heedless of the danger of the crackling magical forcefield fading rapidly before them, they leaned into each other. His arms were around her, keeping her close; her hands slid up his chest to curve around his face as her lips sought his, and the brevity of their kiss did not lessen the passion of it.

"We will survive this, husband," she said, her tone allowing for no manner of dissent. 

"As you wish, wife," he said, giving her a grim but determined smile in return. "I still do not hold with this plan of attack, however, for I confess that I would much rather live with you than die at your side." 

"Very well," she said, nodding. "What would you rather us do?" 

He looked around them, peering through his fading magic. "I believe I can make it to the cave where we passed the night, at least," he said, but she frowned. 

"We would be trapped," she pointed out. "I do not like that at all." 

"We are essentially trapped in the open here," he sighed. "That cave is surely some defense. If we must fight, at least we would fight fewer of them at once."

She thought quickly, weighing their options. Her first instinct was to make a stand here, but his point about the defensive value of the cave was well taken, and after a moment, she nodded her assent. 

They made it to the cave in the cliff, but just barely: the magical shield dwindled steadily as they moved across the ground, and by the time they ducked into the opening in the rocks, it was cracking and growing more and more transparent. Sif could see the line of fire demons advancing inexorably towards them; they had no need of speed now, for they knew their prey was trapped. What remained of the spell-shield covered the entrance to the cave, but she did not need to ask Loki if he had the strength to recast it-- his face and body betrayed his exhaustion as he slumped against the cold wall of the cave, eyes closed, his face so pale that his skin looked thin and stretched.

"I am sorry," he panted, hands shaking. 

"Do not be," she said, spying a thin sliver of what she dearly hoped was light filtering down from the roof of the cavern, just above the entrance. "Do you have enough strength left for a little light?" 

"I hope so," he told her. He felt his way along the cave wall toward her, and when at last he was at her side, a wavering ball of light rose up from his hand. Shakily, he sent it where she pointed, illuminating a crack in the ceiling and daylight far beyond it. "I might be able to widen that for a moment with magic, lady, but--"

"No need," she said, backing them both further into the cave away from the entrance and the dim spell-shield beyond. Sif hefted a small boulder up from the ground and lobbed it with all her strength at the fault in the rock; after a moment, she was rewarded with a cracking noise and a brief rain of shattered stones cascading down between them and the entrance. 

"Or we could do it your way, of course," he said, amused. He moved the spell-light further up the rocks through the hole she had opened, revealing a high cliff with more light at the top. 

Sif peered up at it in mild dismay. "It looks almost sheer," she said. "I think we can scale it, but it will take some doing, and it will blunt our blades to carve footholds in this benighted rock." 

"You can sharpen them once we are home," he told her. 

They rested briefly, at her insistence. Normally she would have urged them onward immediately, but the rockslide would keep their enemies at bay for now, and there would be no rest for her weary husband once they began to scale the cliff face. Once they began their ascent, she was glad of her patience, for the climb was treacherous, and more than once one of them slipped, braced up by the strength of the other. They held their daggers between their teeth, dull edges turned inward; they communicated mostly by touch as they felt their way along the face of the cliff. 

When at last they reached the top, they were relieved to find no enemies waiting for them, only a clear path down the mountain to the settlement they sought. The climb had taken much of their daylight, but there was just enough left for them to make their way down the slope of the mountain to the encampment in the caverns below. 

"If we are not troubled by this unintended marriage, lady, why do we not just return home?" he asked at length. "I would never have brought us here if I had thought you did not want to be rid of me." 

"I will never be rid of you," she said, reaching over to wipe a smear of dirt from his cheek. "But we have come this far. Let us at least find these people and ask them what they have done. I should not like to wake up a magician in several years, only next to one." 

"Very well," he said, stepping close enough to knock his shoulder against hers. 

They were halfway to the bottom of the mountain when he stopped her, his hand on her arm. "Do you hear that?" he asked. 

She frowned and made to answer in the negative, but then her ears caught the sound of a low rumbling, and they both turned to see an avalanche of rock speeding toward them, gaining speed quickly, too quickly, as it tumbled down the mountainside.

"That is no enemy we can fight," she said.

"Run," he said, and they did, but their tired bodies could only go so swiftly, and the rockslide outpaced them just before they reached the bottom of the mountain, swirling around both of them in a cavalcade of hard stone and choking dust. His hand found hers in the midst of it, and all she could think as her vision faded was that if she had to perish outside of a battle, at least she was with him.

\+ 

Sif woke to someone stroking her hair; the hand was gentle, but even the tendrils of her hair seemed to ache and throb, and her face twisted in pain. 

"By Odin's beard," she grumbled, "stop that." 

Sif opened one eye and then the other, grimacing when even that small movement sent a shock of pain radiating through her body. Loki sat next to her, his hand now resting on the pillow beside her head, fingers no longer tangled up in her hair. "I am sorry," she sighed. "But I am glad to see you alive." 

"How do you feel?" 

She tried to sit, swearing and sweating as she did; he knew far better than to insult her by trying to assist her, so he only sat back in relieved amusement, watching. 

"I feel as though I did battle with a mountain and the mountain won," she told him at last, rubbing her temples. Her limbs were stiff, and an involuntary grunt escaped her when she went to stretch the sore muscles of her legs. "Stars, how many days have I slept?" 

"Three," he said. She could hear the weight of all nine realms in that one word, and though it pained her to move, still she reached her hand out for his. 

"I am sorry," she said again. 

"It is no matter," he told her. "We are together, and we are alive." 

"I confess that I am surprised to see that it is thus," someone said, and when they looked towards the doorway they saw there the priestess they had come to seek. 

"It would take more than an avalanche and an army of fire demons to send us to Valhalla," Sif said proudly, and the priestess laughed.

"I did not mean the battle, my lady," she said, spreading her hands. "I meant the binding spell."

"We came to speak with you about that," Loki told her. "We feared there had been some sort of...misunderstanding about its intended usage." 

The priestess laughed again. "I do not doubt that. We had wondered why you insisted upon it," she said. "That is an ancient spell, and one that our people often consider the worst of our punishments."

"Punishment," Loki repeated, exchanging a look with Sif, and the priestess nodded. 

"What exactly does it do?" Sif asked, though she began to suspect that they both already knew.

"It does as you said before, my lady," the priestess told her. "It gives each person strength. When there is but one, the spell gives what is desired. But when there are two, the spell takes from each what the other lacks and forces it upon them." 

Sif sat back, wondering, thinking of all the changes her life had undergone since they were last here, the value she had come to see in the occasional strength of words that were perhaps untrue, the loyalty Loki had come to have for her. The priestess made to continue, and she shook herself out of her memories, seeing as she did that Loki had been lost in the same. She squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture with care, mindful of her aching bones.

"It is a spell that we reserve for those who will not make peace with one another. Strength is shared, but so is weakness, for they are often one and the same." The priestess paused, as though she did not know if she should continue. The smile she gave them was not at all warm, and even somewhat wicked. "Not all our warriors survive the process." 

"Oh," Sif said, blinking. 

"Indeed," Loki said. 

"I suppose we should count ourselves among the fortunate," Sif told him. 

"So you should," the priestess said, "for we find that those who can use its power to learn from one another will never again be alone, but will continue to find the other person a source of strength until death finally parts them. As I told you, marriage is what you might call it." 

"So we would," Loki said meaningfully, and with that, the priestess slipped away, leaving them with their thoughts and each other.

"I suppose we have our answers," Sif said, long after she was gone. 

He looked over at her, the vaguest trace of a smirk playing at his mouth. "Yes," he agreed, "Lady Silvertongue, I suppose that we do." 

"I told you I was starting to enjoy that title," she said. Her aching muscles protested, but she moved closer to him regardless. 

"I suppose we never had to marry after all," he said, looking down at their hands, fingers still interlaced. "But I am not unhappy that we did." 

"Nor am I," she said, smiling up at him. "You came here for strength, Loki. Tell me: did you find it?" 

"I think perhaps I did," he answered, leaning down to kiss her, and if they took their time making ready to return home, neither of them cared at all.


End file.
